


artichoke

by takingyournarrative



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, How Do I Tag, Michael's identity issues, Other, and lots and lots of deception, and trust issues, anyway, hello jon, songfic?, speaking of which
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27752311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingyournarrative/pseuds/takingyournarrative
Summary: He traced a fingertip over the place where its heart should have been, promised it that it was good for him. It said I believe you, but it was a liar. He kissed it and the lie was in his mouth. The lie and the wanting, the quiet desperation to speak the words and have them be true. He told it again. It was sweet.vaguely based on the song "Artichoke" by Charming Disaster. peculiarly angsty. but also there's a lot of kissing.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	artichoke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shrinevandal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrinevandal/gifts).



> gm server has a suspicious number of charming disaster fans. this happened.

Michael was not as it had promised.  _ I am unknowable, little bookburner _ , as it leaned over him, sharp edges, too many teeth, a smile that was meant to be a threat and looked like an endearment.  _ You do not want to love me.  _

He did. Gerry was determined to prove this; to show it that its armor — the layers and layers of confusion and lies it wrapped itself in — was not its everything, that he could love it for its defenses and whatever it was beneath them. It was soft, sharp but soft, the way it dissolved at his touch, the knifepoints of its fingertips gentle against his back, in his hair. The hum of its lips pressed to his pulse. 

He traced a fingertip over the place where its heart should have been, promised it that it was good for him. It said  _ I believe you _ , but it was a liar. He kissed it and the lie was in his mouth. The lie and the wanting, the quiet desperation to speak the words and have them be true. He told it again. It was sweet.

Gerry missed it when they were not together. When it disappeared through the yellow door and left him with the memory of its laugh, the phantom press of its lips on his. He was lonely, too easily lonely these days. There was nothing satiate about Michael, and the way it never promised a return but he knew, he  _ knew  _ it would tugged at him, left him always in anticipation. And when it returned, it would smile from the doorway, gentle as anything, and hold out its hands to receive him. 

“Trust me, Michael,” he said, his head resting on its chest, listening to the rise and fall of its breathing. “Tell me something.”

“It is not in my nature to trust,” it said, and it was laughing, and Gerry loved the sound.

“Try.”

“Not yet.” And it pulled him closer and kissed him until he forgot he had asked. 

In the end, it was hard to know whether its sharpness or its softness defended it better. For all its rows of teeth and the way its hands on his face felt like hovering against a knifepoint, it only made him curious. Because it was  _ not  _ that —  _ I am not what I am, lover _ , it murmured when he mentioned it — not really, not with the way it hummed when he spoke its name and leaned against him when he took its hand. It was harder to be close to it when it was soft, because it was so gentle in its redirection that he could speak to it for hours, hold it against him and kiss its eyes, without ever knowing it. It would not let him.

And he did not seek to define it. He knew it did not exist to be defined, that it did not want to be defined. But he loved it, and wanted it to open to him, to let him pull aside its deceptions for just a minute. More than anything, it was trust he was after. 

“Michael,” he said, and even its name was a lie. “Michael, come here.”

It sat beside him and let him take its hand in both of his own. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Now, bookburner,” said Michael, and it raised a hand to cup his face, drawing closer. He caught at its shoulder to hold it back but leaned into the touch. 

“No, talk to me.”

“I was not meant to be —”

“I won’t. Just — trust me. Please.”

It was quiet for a long time, tracing a thumb along the lines of his face. 

“But you love me for my falsehoods.” It sounded genuinely worried.

“Michael. I love you. That’s — it. There’s no  _ for  _ or  _ if  _ or  _ when  _ to that.”

“If you knew— ”

“There is nothing you can say to make me stop loving you, Michael.” His grip on its hand was perhaps too tight now, but he ached, harsh and raw to know that Michael feared like this. “Please, Michael. Let me love you for all of you.”

It was beautiful, in the fading lamplight. Hair burnished gold and twisting. Its eyes calm for once — none of their usual frantic twisting, which Gerry loved so well for how mad it made him feel. He liked this too. They were soft. Cracked open and vulnerable and still. He did not look away as he kissed its hand, and its eyes fluttered closed.

A long, long sigh. “Have I ever told you about Sannikov Land?”

And Michael was sharp, and it was soft, and it had been opened and remade and what was at its center was not what it had been before, and certainly not Michael Shelley. Gerry didn’t care. Gerry promised it, proved it, held it and told it a thousand things he loved it for, half of them its deceptions. 

He loved it for its contradictions. Loved it for the way it lied to him as much as the way it was honest. It talked in epithets as easily as names and he drank them in hungrily because it spoke with affection in every syllable, spoke like it had made the words anew — for him specifically, for him now, for him here in its arms. 

He loved it for its armor and its softness, lost himself in every facet and every layer of its being until he knew it as much as it could be known — which was very little, but enough. 


End file.
